The Artist
by Little Dark Dynamite
Summary: Tristan, a teen with severe autism, tries to create the perfect painting. ORIGINAL! Kind of. Number 1 in the Tristan Chronicles


**Author's Note: Hello! This is my second Rules fanfic. It's based on my brother, Tristan, who has severe autism. This is dedicated to him. Hope you like it.**

**The Artist **

In a small room on the second floor of a two story house, there was an easel. It had a large piece of white paper, and on it's little shelf, were different colors of paint. Red, orange, yellow, a couple shades of green and blue, purple, black and, for some reason, white. A young boy sat on a stool that was placed in front of the easel. He stared at the easel, frozen in place. The boy's name was Tristan. He was 13 years old and had tan skin and dark brown hair that went to his shoulders. He also had severe autism.

Tristan twitched slightly. He looked at the colors, then at the paper, then back again to the different colors of paint. His brown eyes fell upon to a neon green.

"Green," he thought.

He dipped his forefinger into the neon green paint. He'd seen other kids at his school use paintbrushes, but he didn't know how to use one. He didn't care; he preferred finger painting better.

"Finger painting," he thought with a mischievous grin on his face. "Fun."

Tristan dipped a finger from his other hand in a sky blue paint. He painted a green, squiggly line and a straight blue line intersecting with the green line. Then he took his hand and smeared the two lines, turning them into one blue-green blob. He dipped his fingers into the red paint and the yellow paint. He froze again, not knowing what to do next, letting the paint on his fingers drip onto the floor.

"Ahhhhhheeeee!" Tristan cried, hitting his leg in frustration. A spot of red paint was on his leg. He sniffed, winced at the pain. He hit his leg too hard, and his throat hurt a little bit from yelling. If only he was able to talk, like his mom, and his dad, and his sister...

He flung his hands forward, annoyed. He glanced at his paper. The red and yellow paint on his hands had splattered on his paper. Tristan raised his eyebrows. He dipped his hand in the purple paint and flung it forward. Splat! The purple paint was running across the yellow paint. Tristan smiled again and shrieked with glee. He had an idea.

He continued to do this for about half an hour. He splattered every color he had: orange, blue, more red, purple, yellow, black, more green, more blue, even more green, purple, and even white. Tristan stopped and stared at his hands, twitching. They were smeared and covered with paint. Then he looked up at his picture. It was perfect. It had color in all the right places and there wasn't a spot of white. Besides the white paint, of course. "Pretty," he thought proudly.

"Tristan!"

Tristan turned around. There, in the doorway, stood his mom.

"What did you do to your room, Tin?" she asked. "Look, you got paint on the floor." She looked up. "And the ceiling!"

Tristan glanced up. There _was_ paint on the ceiling. He knew there was paint on the floor, but he didn't know about the ceiling. "Uh-oh," he thought.

"Your dad's gonna have a cow," Mom told him with a laugh. Tristan sat on the bed guiltily. He knew he was in big trouble.

"Cool picture," a new voice said.

Mom and Tristan turned around to find Trina, Tristan's older sister, looking at Tristan's picture. Trina was two years older than Tristan, and in high school. She was an aspiring writer.

Mom walked towards Tristan's painting. "Tin, did you make this by yourself?" she asked.

"Eeeee," Tristan answered.

"Wow, Tin, this is really good," Trina said. "He's a little artist," she said to Mom. Mom nodded. "He sure is. This is the first painting he ever made by himself," she added.

Tristan laughed. He knew Trina and Mom liked his picture.

"Well, I'll go put this somewhere safe so it can dry," Mom said. She looked down at the floor. "We'll have to clean the floor and the ceiling tomorrow, since it's almost Tin's bedtime." She left.

Trina glanced at Tristan. "Go lay down," she said. "So I can play some music for you." Tristan laid down and covered himself with his blankets.

"Okay, what do you want to listen to? Debussy?"

"Doooyyyyy."

"Doy? Is that a 'yes?'" Tristan stuck out his tongue.

"Oh, okay, that's a no," Trina clarified. "Beethoven?"

"Yeee-uh."

"Yeah? Did you just say 'yeah?'"

"Ouiii."

"Now you're speaking French," Trina joked.

"Heh."

Trina popped in a Beethoven CD and skipped ahead to "Fur Elise," Tristan's favorite. He giggled. Trina walked over and messed up his hair, their special way of saying "I love you." "Night, Tin," Trina said. "Go to sleep, you've got school tomorrow. Mommy will be here in a minute." Tristan grinned. Trina grinned back, then left. Tristan closed his eyes and began to fall asleep, listening to the gentle piano. He didn't remember "Fur Elise" ending or his mom coming in and laying down with him. All he could remember was that Trina called him the "Little Artist."

**The End**

**Author's Note: I know that was a little short, but oh well. Please review! And one more thing: I will be changing my pen name, now that I'm not as obsessed with Twilight as I used to be. My new name will be LizBennet713. (Pride and Prejudice? Get it?) REMEMBER THAT. Thanks for reading!**

**~EdwardCullenFan713 (soon to be LizBennet713)**


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